Read Online The Last President: A Novel of an Alternative America by Michael Kurland, S. W. Barton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Kurland, S. W. Barton
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right?” Faulkes asked Masters. “Have you any comment? Did anything like that happen at the Bureau? Has anything changed since Hoover died?”
“No comment,” Masters said, “but I’ll tell you this: A lot of people have been throwing shit at J. Edgar Hoover for the past thirty years for the way he ran the Bureau, but if the facts ever come out, they’re going to eat their words. That man bowed to no political pressure. Everything he did was for what he considered the good of the country. And nobody, in any office, ever used him or the Bureau. And nobody tried more than once.”
“Are you saying the FBI is being subverted?” Faulkes asked.
“I’m not saying anything,” Masters said.
“Could we shut up and play cards?” Obie Porfritt demanded.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kit parked his car in the alley behind the building, but the back door was locked, so he had to walk around to the front. The plaque on the door, a two-foot brass square that jutted out about six inches, said:
INSTITUTE FOR AN INFORMED AMERICA
Founded 1973
Kit rang the bell and after a while a woman came to answer it and let him in. It was Dianna Holroyd, whom he had first met in room sixteen. “Welcome,” she said. “Mr. St. Yves said you’d be coming over. We close at six, but I waited to let you in.”
Kit checked his watch. It was ten after six. “Sorry I’m late,” he said.
“No problem,” she said. “Actually, I have to stay until you people leave, and close up after you. Woman’s work is never done. They’re upstairs, first door on your right.”
Kit climbed the stairs and found St. Yves waiting for him on the landing. “Glad you’re here,” St. Yves greeted him.
“Sorry to pull you into this at the last moment, but Mercer got an attack of—would you believe?—appendicitis, and is now lying in a bed in Doctor’s Hospital while they decide whether or not to cut him open. Come in and meet the crew.”
The room was small and furnished with no more than a few folding chairs and a bridge table. Kit shook hands with the four men as St. Yves introduced them: Curtis, short and competent-looking; Peterson, blond and tall, with the fingers of a craftsman; Lowesson, who had the distinctive look of an ex-cop; and Berkey, small and skinny, with the equally distinctive look of an ex-con.
Since his lunch meeting with St. Yves six months before, Kit had been blessed with an assistant and a larger office at the EOB. His title was the same, but most of the job was now done by the assistant, except for the morning ritual of carrying the bound Daily Intelligence Summary over to the White House and putting it on the President’s desk in the Oval Office. His primary job now was liaison between the traditional intelligence services and the “Plumbers,” as St. Yves called the covert group which was responsible, as Vandermeer put it, for “plugging the leaks.” The SIU had just moved this section into the Institute for an Informed America, which St. Yves was still gloating over as being the perfect cover. St. Yves and the planning staff stayed on at room sixteen, to keep immediate access to the President and Billy Vandermeer.
“Okay, everybody,” St. Yves said, “just sit down and relax. Here’s the drill: it’s a surreptitious entry for the purpose of information-gathering in an apartment over on Twelfth and T.”
“Great neighborhood,” Berkey commented.
“Yours not to reason why,” St. Yves told him, “yours merely to drive the getaway car. Now, here’s the way I’ve worked out the division of labor. We’ve set up an OP in an apartment across the street on the second floor. Young and I will work out of there and establish surveillance. The subject should be going out shortly after we get there. When he does, I’ll give Curtis the word on the walkie-talkie, and Curtis will stay on his tail. If for any reason he heads back early—”
”You know where he’s going?” Peterson interrupted.
“Fellow’s going to a
“No comment,” Masters said, “but I’ll tell you this: A lot of people have been throwing shit at J. Edgar Hoover for the past thirty years for the way he ran the Bureau, but if the facts ever come out, they’re going to eat their words. That man bowed to no political pressure. Everything he did was for what he considered the good of the country. And nobody, in any office, ever used him or the Bureau. And nobody tried more than once.”
“Are you saying the FBI is being subverted?” Faulkes asked.
“I’m not saying anything,” Masters said.
“Could we shut up and play cards?” Obie Porfritt demanded.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kit parked his car in the alley behind the building, but the back door was locked, so he had to walk around to the front. The plaque on the door, a two-foot brass square that jutted out about six inches, said:
INSTITUTE FOR AN INFORMED AMERICA
Founded 1973
Kit rang the bell and after a while a woman came to answer it and let him in. It was Dianna Holroyd, whom he had first met in room sixteen. “Welcome,” she said. “Mr. St. Yves said you’d be coming over. We close at six, but I waited to let you in.”
Kit checked his watch. It was ten after six. “Sorry I’m late,” he said.
“No problem,” she said. “Actually, I have to stay until you people leave, and close up after you. Woman’s work is never done. They’re upstairs, first door on your right.”
Kit climbed the stairs and found St. Yves waiting for him on the landing. “Glad you’re here,” St. Yves greeted him.
“Sorry to pull you into this at the last moment, but Mercer got an attack of—would you believe?—appendicitis, and is now lying in a bed in Doctor’s Hospital while they decide whether or not to cut him open. Come in and meet the crew.”
The room was small and furnished with no more than a few folding chairs and a bridge table. Kit shook hands with the four men as St. Yves introduced them: Curtis, short and competent-looking; Peterson, blond and tall, with the fingers of a craftsman; Lowesson, who had the distinctive look of an ex-cop; and Berkey, small and skinny, with the equally distinctive look of an ex-con.
Since his lunch meeting with St. Yves six months before, Kit had been blessed with an assistant and a larger office at the EOB. His title was the same, but most of the job was now done by the assistant, except for the morning ritual of carrying the bound Daily Intelligence Summary over to the White House and putting it on the President’s desk in the Oval Office. His primary job now was liaison between the traditional intelligence services and the “Plumbers,” as St. Yves called the covert group which was responsible, as Vandermeer put it, for “plugging the leaks.” The SIU had just moved this section into the Institute for an Informed America, which St. Yves was still gloating over as being the perfect cover. St. Yves and the planning staff stayed on at room sixteen, to keep immediate access to the President and Billy Vandermeer.
“Okay, everybody,” St. Yves said, “just sit down and relax. Here’s the drill: it’s a surreptitious entry for the purpose of information-gathering in an apartment over on Twelfth and T.”
“Great neighborhood,” Berkey commented.
“Yours not to reason why,” St. Yves told him, “yours merely to drive the getaway car. Now, here’s the way I’ve worked out the division of labor. We’ve set up an OP in an apartment across the street on the second floor. Young and I will work out of there and establish surveillance. The subject should be going out shortly after we get there. When he does, I’ll give Curtis the word on the walkie-talkie, and Curtis will stay on his tail. If for any reason he heads back early—”
”You know where he’s going?” Peterson interrupted.
“Fellow’s going to a
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